


Where the Light Enters Us

by okapi



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Animal Death, Being Lost, Blood Loss, Buried Alive, Dancing, Exhaustion, Fluff, Food Poisoning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Iron Maiden - Freeform, Left for Dead, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, Netflix and Chill, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Pining, Reminiscing, Temporary Character Death, Walking, Whumptober 2020, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: 21.Valletta.Nicky follows a cat and becomes accessory to a gruesome murder.Warning for dark themes: murder, animal murder, left for dead, and Iron Maiden-type device.Hurt/Comfort. For Whumptober 2020 and DW Comfortween 2020.  Chapters stand alone.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 97
Kudos: 200
Collections: Comfortween 2020, Whumptober 2020





	1. Brno.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mix of fills for prompts from Whumptober 2020 and DW 2020 [Comfortween](https://hurtcomfortex.dreamwidth.org/22946.html) and other challenges. The title is a paraphrase of the quote by Rumi: 'The wound is the place where light enters you.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky waxes poetic about Joe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Whumptober 2020: Day 1: Shackled. I wrote the first 200 words for the DW [31 Days](https://31-days.dreamwidth.org/) comm prompt for 23 September: he steps into the remaining light.

Joe is so beautiful sometimes it hurts to look at him. He steps into the remaining light, and Nicky’s heart throbs.

Nicky wishes, and not for the first time, that he had Joe’s talent for drawing. He wishes he could capture the way the dying light makes a rich, warm halo around Joe’s silhouette. The silhouette itself is not a uniform shadow but rather shades of dark in which Nicky can distinguish Joe’s hair, coarse yet soft, as well as Joe’s neck and back and shoulders, thick, firm muscle layered with warm skin and clothing.

Nicky feels the latent memory of being at prayer and raising his head to see a painting or a sculpture, something holy, something beautiful, something created to tell a story of mercy and wonder, something created to inspire goodness and love and devotion.

Joe turns.

Maybe he feels the weight of Nicky’s gaze. Maybe he doesn’t. But a thousand years haven’t rid Nicky of the habit of looking away and blushing at being caught staring. 

“Like what you see, hayati?”

Nicky nods at the ground but he doesn’t just like what he sees, he loves what he sees in every way he knows to love.

The shackles don’t matter at all.

Nicky has already forgotten about them in his musings on Joe, his beauty and their love.

The shackles are, when Nicky finally considers them, old, heavy, and rusted. They are fettered to the wall by long chains which are similarly old, heavy, and rusted.

A song drifts into Nicky’s thoughts.

“’Our love is here to stay. Not for a year. Forever and a day,’” he croons softly, not certain of the tune at all. “In time something-something may crumble…”

There’s an affectionate rub of Nicky’s head and Joe saying, “Let’s get out of here.” 


	2. London.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Nicky do 'Midsomer and chill.'
> 
> Warning for non-graphic reference to past violence and mild sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of this chapter came from [Ink & Ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26515771/chapters/64626235) by ToBebbanburg. Nicky and Joe are watching Season 12, Episode 5 of _Midsomer Murders_ , [Small Mercies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nCvxU8GTEAY). 
> 
> This is for Whumptober 2020: Day 2: "Pick who dies" and for DW Comfortween: Day 2: Comfort Media: Netflix and chill.

“Hey, Nicky, that show is on.”

Nicky steps out of the bathroom, one towel around his waist, one towel around his head. He drops the latter as he looks at the screen.

“Oh, it’s the one with the miniature village!” Nicky hurries, slipping on a pair of Joe’s sweatpants and a T-shirt before sliding atop Joe and settling in.

Joe’s propped up on pillows, and the TV has been rolled on its stand to the side of the bed.

Nicky’s head is pillowed on Joe’s chest. He watches the screen. Joe watches him.

“Can you imagine, Joe? Being murdered and waking up like that, on your back, in a tiny village, a giant felled by tiny villagers?” He laughs softly, gently, beautifully.

“Nah.” Joe can’t imagine it, and he also can’t for the life (and death) of him figure out why Nicky who scorns most forms of modern media, who can barely send Joe cat videos on his phone, loves this show.

There are mysteries in life, Joe supposes, big ones, like immortality, and small ones, like Nicky and Midsomer Murders.

“It’s absurd.” Nicky chuckles. “Such bizarre people all collected in a place called Little Worthy.”

Nicky’s body relaxes against Joe, and Joe says a silent prayer of thanksgiving. He finally realizes that he can put That Mission behind him, to relegate it to the sleeping past, along with all the other nightmares.

In this moment, Nicky’s happy, snuggled against Joe, watching a ridiculous television show.

Joe runs a smoothing hand over Nicky’s hair and leans up so that he can presses his lips to nearest part of Nicky, which turns out to be the top of his head.

After this, Nicky lifts his head to give Joe a half-smile, but his eyes are quickly back on the screen. He exhales and relaxes even more into Joe, and Joe lays his arms on Nicky, awash with bliss, savoring the quiet contentment of being exactly where he wants to be and wanting nothing more.

That Mission.

In the twisted logic of the cruel, they’d forced Joe to pick who died.

And he’d picked Nicky.

Nicky knew why. That minute nod of the head had said volumes.

Joe picked Nicky because the rest of the hostages would’ve stayed dead.

Nicky wouldn’t.

Unless…

But unless hadn’t happened. Nicky hadn’t stayed dead.

Months had passed. Joe had thought he’d put it behind him. They’d done all sorts of crying, cleansing and closure rituals. They’d talked about it until they were both blue in the face, until they were bone tired of talking about it. Forgiveness had been asked for and given many times over.

Here, in this London hotel room, Joe feels he can finally lay the whole incident to rest.

Nicky’s voice interrupts.

“Do you think that girl would be nicer to her,” he points at the screen, “if she knew she was going to get a pitchfork in the chest?” He shakes his head, not expecting an answer.

Joe’s reply is to rub Nicky’s head again, all the way down to his nape and back, then smoothing it once more. 

“Barnaby gets it. He knows,” says Nicky. “The world is mad, and that world is madder than most.”

It had been a very long time since Joe had killed Nicky. He hates hurting Nicky for any reason, even a perfectly good one, like breaking his wrists so that they can free themselves from shackles. Killing him is anathema. It brought back so many memories of how they’d met. Joe knew it would before he did it. The bastards hadn’t given him much choice.

So, he’d done it.

And here they are.

“A cemetery for dolls.” Nicky exhales noisily. “Not a very nice old lady. But still, that hammer.” He winces.

Despite the wincing, Joe knows the tension has all ebbed from Nicky. He can feel it. His lover is pliant and soft and lovely. And, Joe realizes, a moment later, all the tension has ebbed from himself, too. 

Nicky lifts his head again and digs the point of his chin a bit into Joe’s chest. His eyes pierce like a pair of thin, Mediterranean blue daggers.

They see Joe, and Nicky smiles a smile of satisfaction that Joe recognizes. Nicky nods, and Joe knows he knows that everything is better, that Joe is finally okay with what happened and the choice he made and all of it

Nicky slips both of his hands under Joe’s shirt. They are flat on Joe’s skin, somewhere near his armpits.

Joe doesn’t make any kind of counter movement until Barnaby is talking to the murderer.

“Poor girl,” says Nicky. He sighs. Then one of his hands moves to brush Joe’s nipple, and Joe responds by sinking both hands under the waist of Nicky’s sweatpants.

Nicky inches up Joe’s body until Joe’s hands are on his buttocks.

Nicky and Joe stay like that as the credit rolls. They may stay like that for a while, Nicky idly rubbing Joe’s nipples and nuzzling Joe’s chest, Joe gently squeezing Nicky’s ass.

But then Nicky says, “Let’s go to bed,” despite the fact that they are already in bed, and it’s late.

Joe flicks off the television.

“Good night, Barnaby,” says Nicky as the screen goes black.

Joe flicks off the single light in the room. “Come here, my love,” he whispers, even though Nicky is very much already there.


	3. Paris.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky needs some air.
> 
> Warning for non-graphic reference to past violence and mild sexual content and smoking cigarettes.
> 
> For the Whumptober Day 3 prompts: manhandled, forced to knees, and held at gunpoint. And for the DW 2020 Comfortween Day 3: It's not just a river in Egypt.

“Need some air.”

Joe looks up and tugs the earbuds from his ears. The table where he sits on the balcony is covered with his own blend of detritus: sketchbooks, pencils, half-drunk cups of coffee, half-filled glasses of water, books, notebooks. He gives Nicky an up-and-down look. He nods.

“Won’t be long.” Nicky raises his phone to show Joe he has it before returning it to the pocket of his hoodie.

Nicky spills onto the pavement and into the night. He crosses the street to the pedestrian walk beside the river so that Joe, if he so wishes, can see him from the balcony.

Nicky looks left and right, then chooses left.

He begins at a slow pace, his hands sunk in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

The thing is it hadn’t been that bad, the last job.

Joe knows that. So does Nicky.

But.

But they’d got to Nicky first, and because they’d got to Nicky first, they’d roughed him up first and forced him on his knees first and put a gun to his head first.

They hadn’t killed him. It hadn’t come to that. 

Nicky walks past cafés and newsstands. He winds his way through people, moving at a steady pace, not looking at anything or anyone in particular and never, ever stopping.

The river is to his right. 

He checks his phone. It’s been about an hour since he left Joe.

He speeds up.

Now he walks briskly like he’s late for something.

He walks, then crosses the street, then walks some more and crosses back. He does this many times over.

He chooses a bridge and crosses to the other side of the river and turns right.

Now, whenever Nicky finds a lonely stretch, he bolts, sprinting ‘til he’s out of breath, his gasps forming thin clouds in the cool night air.

He reaches a more trafficked spot and is forced to slow down or call attention to himself. He goes back to crisscrossing streets.

He checks his phone. It’s been three hours since he left Joe.

Nicky turns right and crosses yet another bridge. He pauses when he reaches the other side and steps aside and taps a cigarette out of a pack and puts it between his lips.

He does not look up at the balcony where Joe was sitting because he knows Joe has not be sitting there, or anywhere else, for the last three hours.

“Need a light?”

With the cigarette still between his lips, Nicky smiles a quarter smile and leans into the flame. He takes a drag and turns his head and blows the smoke out.

Joe, who has been Nicky’s shadow since he left, emerges into the streetlight.

“What’s this, ya qamar?” 

“You needed some air.”

A silent exchange of looks occurs while Nicky takes another drag.

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the river.

Nicky closes the space between them and whispers in his ear, “I’m here for what you feel, Joe, and what you need, not what you are supposed to feel or need.”

Joe shakes his head. He takes the cigarette from Nicky’s fingers and puts it to his lips. 

“What about if you took me upstairs, Joe, and touched me everywhere they touched me? What if you handled my body with tender devotion and respect? And what if I teased you and toyed with you until your body was weeping and then you begged me, pleaded with me to get on my knees, and what if I got on my knees, not because anyone with a gun was forcing me but because I love you and want you more than words can say? And what if I held you at the point of my love all night, hayati? What if I did that?”

Joe makes a kind of strangled noise and takes Nicky in his arms. Nicky takes the cigarette back and smokes over Joe’s shoulder as Joe holds onto him and weeps.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Joe says in between sobs.

“It was bad.”

“We’ve suffered far worse.”

“We suffered.”

“Why are you smoking?”

“Because I was worried about you. Why are you smoking?”

“Why am I smoking? Why am I walking around this damn city for hours? Because where you lead, I follow, habib albi.”

“I felt you. You were by my side the whole time.” He pulls back and laces his fingers in Joe’s. “I knew you would stay no matter what. Did it help clear your head?” Nicky purposefully lets his anxiety bleed through his voice at the end.

“Yes, you always know what I need, hayati. I’ve been distant and stubborn.”

“Come,” says Nicky, tugging on Joe’s arm and pulling him across the street. “Let me give you some more of what you need.” 


	4. Dublin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To survive his current ordeal, Joe goes back in time. 
> 
> For the Whumptober Day 4: Buried Alive and DW 2020 Comfortween: Lovesick (pining to the point of self-neglect or harm; sleepless nights; forgetting to eat; forgetting to come in out of the rain).

Joe knows the only way he’s going to survive this with a shred of his sanity intact is to leave ‘Joe’ far behind. He opens a door in the back of his memory and slips out. He passes through Joseph Jones and many others until he reaches Yusuf. He opens a door in the back of Yusuf’s memory and crawls inside.

* * *

Yusuf stared at the fire and came to two realizations: one, that he was utterly smitten with Nicolò di Genoa, and two, that he could never, ever reveal his condition, no matter long they lived.

They had reached a truce and stopped killing each other. Then they had started traveling together, and since that time, they had fought together and worked together and made camp together. They had gotten to know each other, shared languages, and forged a friendship.

These other, foolish, romantic notions Yusuf had would have to be dispensed with, forthwith. Who knew how many more years they might spend together?

Yusuf wanted thousands of years with Nicolò, and he would not taint those years with awkwardness.

Yusuf admired Nicolò stoicism. Much of the time, he had no idea what his companion was thinking. His handsome face was an impassive slab of stone, and he moved with unhurried deliberation and grace, except when he was wielding his longsword. He was quicker then, but still graceful, Yusuf thought.

Yusuf longed for that kind of reserve.

Whatever Nicolò was thinking it probably wasn’t about the exact color of Yusuf’s eyes or what the nape of Yusuf’s skin might taste like. Yusuf found himself too distracted during the day, so he decided to reserve these ruminations for nights alone. Indeed, every time a thought popped up during the day, he herded it like a goat into his pen of nighttime reveries.

The pen grew crowded, and Yusuf’s nights grew short. He composed verses he forgot by morning.

“You aren’t sleeping well.”

Yusuf shrugged. It was easier not to talk.

Eventually, under the weight of interminable fatigue, Yusuf’s poetry dried up altogether, and the leather strap of his sketchbook was never unwound.

But more problems surfaced.

Once Yusuf found himself staring at Nicolò eating an apricot, wondering absentmindedly what it would be like to be brushed by that tongue.

“Here.” Yusuf blinked. “You look hungry.”

Nicolò was offering him the fruit.

Yusuf was awash with shame, which manifested as anger. He snatched the apricot and turned and ate it hurriedly, grumbling a few words of thanks.

After that, when eating anything, Yusuf made certain his eyes were on his own fare. He did not spare a single glance for Nicolò. So as not to be tempted, he grasped at any opportunity not to eat at all. His clothes began to hang more loosely on his frame.

Nicolò said nothing, but Yusuf felt the weight of his stare more than once.

Bathing was another nightmare.

Yusuf decided to wash only as much as his faith bid. He forced himself to forget about the bathhouses of the larger towns which he had enjoyed frequenting and stopped accompanying Nicolò to bathe in rivers. It was uncomfortable at first, but after a while, Yusuf didn’t notice his own stench. 

“We need to leave this place, Yusuf.”

The campfire was between them.

“Why?”

“It isn’t good for you. You’re, you’re _dying_.”

Yusuf snorted. “No, I’m not,” he said ruefully. 

“You wish you were,” observed Nicolò.

Yusuf looked up.

Those eyes, whatever color they were, were wet. “Let’s go somewhere else. Please, Yusuf.”

Yusuf was miserable. Hungry, tired, filthy, and ashamed of himself in so many ways.

“If you want to go, go! I’m not stopping you! In fact, I think you should!”

Nicolò didn’t flinch. His eyes turned a sad, stormy blue, as if he were hearing something he’d been expecting to hear for a long time. He said quietly, “Then I will.”

Yusuf didn’t sleep that night. He heard Nicolò get up and pack his things. Yusuf kept his eyes closed and pretended not to wake.

It was better this way, he told himself. His nonsense would have ruined everything anyway, eventually.

When Nicolò was long gone, Yusuf got up and packed his things.

He traveled in the opposite direction of the one he believed Nicolò would have taken, and after a morning’s walk, he hired himself out to an elderly widow in possession of a small, isolated farm.

Yusuf took the spade to the ground with a fury, channeling all his anger and frustration and helplessness hopelessness into the breaking the soil.

Yusuf struck the earth over and over and over, cursing himself. He didn’t see the dark clouds roll in on the horizon. He didn’t hear the thunder. He didn’t even feel the first drops of rain. He didn’t stop. Not when his clothes and hair and beard were soaked. Not when his feet were caked with mud. Not even when the wind began to howl his name.

“YUSUF!”

Strong arms were round Yusuf. Rain fell in torrents.

Yusuf cried out and went limp.

He was thrown upon sweet-smelling straw under some kind of shelter.

Yusuf wept. Or maybe it was just the rain dripping off Nicolò’s sodden figure onto Yusuf’s face.

“Nicolò, you have my heart.”

“You silly ass, is that what all this has been about? You have my heart, too.”

“I tried to starve it, sicken it, dirty it, bury it…” 

“A heart like yours, Yusuf, should never be buried. There’s too much joy, too much warmth, too much beauty in it. This world needs your heart too much. And so do I.”

Yusuf smiled.

* * *

Joe smiles. He opens his eyes.

“You silly ass,” says Nicky, and even in Joe’s state of weakness, he can see the relief washing over his lover’s features. “What did I tell you? A heart like yours should never be buried. The world and I need you too much.”

Joe tries to reply, but Nicky’s arms are around him, lifting him out of the coffin. 


	5. Cairo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky and Joe become street puppeteers in Cairo. 
> 
> I watched this [Youtube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOM1Gn5dcac) about Cairo's puppet culture and could see Nicky and Joe doing something like that.
> 
> For the DW 2020 Comfortween Day 5: 'Tis but a scratch. (dealing with bleeding, blood loss, cleaning blood from someone, drinking blood) and Whumptober Day 10: Blood Loss.

Malta has their passion, that’s for certain, but Cairo has something, too. Their joy.

It was an easy choice for Joe.

The residence they selected in Cairo happened to be opposite the workshop of an artist, a sculptor and theatrical designer, a fellow whom Joe liked very much.

Then there was the first week in Cairo, well, this time in Cairo, and Nicky and he had stopped to watch a street performance.

Joe liked the puppets and the story and the music, but he felt something much more when he turned his head and caught sight of Nicky.

Nicky was laughing, smiling, clapping along with the children in the audience. Not a trace remained of the darkness they’d left behind, and when that lightness of heart and spirit carried on after the show ended, the die was cast.

Three months later, Joe and Nicky are street puppeteers themselves, making tethered dolls dance and tell a story, one of their own stories, on the streets of Cairo.

Nicky still has a starlit smile plastered on his face, and Joe hasn’t stopped grinning for weeks. He is absolutely drunk on the joy of their lives. He makes the lizard puppet dance towards Nicky’s boy puppet and sings the silly song in a silly voice which has the children, and Nicky, giggling.

* * *

Nicky doesn’t remember exactly how he got the fatal wound by the banks of the Nile, but he does remember it was an accident and it was his leg. He remembers the blood, gushing furiously. The edges of his world had already begun to burn to white ash when he saw the creature.

The creature swiftly raced towards Nicky, then Nicolò.

Nicolò closed his eyes.

“No!”

Nicolò opened his eyes. The cry had sprung from a large, forked-tongued river monitor, which was staring at him intently.

Nicolò looked down his body. The claws of one of the creature’s feet were gripping a ball of linen and pressing it to his leg, to the wound. The pale fabric turned red while Nicolò watched.

“I can’t stop it,” said the lizard. “You’re going to die.”

Nicolò studied the lizard’s face. The lizard’s eyes were glassy and wet and sad, and the scales around those eyes made a pattern of crinkles, crinkles that, as Nicolò studied them, became familiar to him.

As the last of Nicolò’s blood left him, he said, wonderingly, “How did you manage to grow scales and a tail?”

“They same way that you, my butterfly, grew golden wings dotted with sea blue eyes.”

“I will fly to your eyes,” responded Nicolò, touching the corner of one scaly, watery eye. “And drink your tears.”

* * *

On the streets of Cairo, Nicky snaps his wrist, and the boy puppet with the red balloon blooming from his legs turns into itself. With another shake and a few tugs, it unfolds, inside out, and is now a golden butterfly which Nicky makes flutter and perch near the lizard’s eye as Joe sings the last song.


	6. Copenhagen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico and Josef have to leave Denmark suddenly. 
> 
> For Whumptober Day 5: Where do you think you're going?: On the run

Nicky takes a photo of Joe kissing the mermaid statue on the Langelinie promenade.

“You remember Hans?”

“I remember. Come on, Little Match Joe.”

* * *

Nico bursts through the door.

“Josef—”

Josef shushes him and points to the sleeping child.

Nico sighs and rolls his eyes. “Really?” There was never purer an expression of exasperated love than the one on his face at that moment. “We have to go! Right now! It’s a disaster! Everything is ruined! We leave Denmark tonight!”

“But…” protests Josef, now gesturing to the child with both hands.

They speak in low whispers.

“Take him back to his father, Josef.”

“He hates it there.”

“He’ll hate it more if the bastards who are after us find him here.”

“You didn’t lead them here.”

“Of course not, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“How much time?”

“We need to be gone, Josef. Hours.”

“He is a born storyteller, Nico. He’s so clever. And sensitive.”

“I know you like him. You’ve been reading him that,” Nico nods in the direction of the large volume on the table, “for weeks. It ought to be called _A Thousand and One Maghrebi Nights;_ the stories are more yours than what’s on the page.”

“I bought all of that,” Josef tilts his head, “to make him a proper Christmas.”

Nico turns his head, spies all the bags and parcels, smacks his forehead, and groans, “Josef, you’re too soft for this cruel world. You don’t even _celebrate_ Christmas!”

“But he does. He asked me something earlier that slayed me, Nico,” Josef catches Nico’s look and adds, “figuratively, of course. He asked, ‘When will I have a friend who loves me like Nico loves you?’ I almost cried.”

“You did cry.”

“But not when he was watching! So I had to give him a Christmas. Something special.”

Nico melts, then shakes his head and bites his lip. “We have to leave tonight, Josef.” He sees the anguish in his beloved’s face. “All right. Let’s arrange this Christmas of yours, let his father know where he is, and lead the bastards away from here. If he’s as clever as you say, no harm will come to him. That’s all. We have to go even though your heart is breaking.”

“I love you, Nico.”

“I know. I love you, too. But this city is too hot for us. We need to leave the country altogether and go somewhere else. South. I know we like to choose when we pull up roots, but that’s not this time.”

“I’m going to leave him that book. Maybe his father will read it to him. Maybe someday we’ll read stories by him.”

* * *

“C’mon!” urges Nico.

Josef takes one last look about the room.

Hans is still sleeping despite the noise they’ve made. There is a warm stove and a meal waiting and a book and a tiny stem of fir decorated with nuts and fruit and a bright silver star with ribbons trailing down.

Nico drags his lover out the door.


	7. Marrakesh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky faints at the market. 
> 
> For DW Comfortween Day 6: I feel faint: caring for someone who has lost consciousness and Whumptober Day 7: I've got you: support: carrying.

It’s their fourth (or fifth, they can’t remember) time in Marrakesh.

Their new place needs a few basic comforts, so they head to the market.

All of the country seems to have the same idea or so it seems to Nicky.

He knew it would be like this, but he still feels the assault to his senses. The whole atmosphere of the market pricks him like hair shirt. Like an _unpleasant_ hair shirt.

Crowded. Loud. Noisy. Hot. Sprawling.

Nicky knows before they even arrive that it was a mistake to insist on accompanying Joe.

He hasn’t slept much. He hasn’t slept well. They’ve been surviving, wandering, dying for a long time.

Nicky regrets agreeing to Marrakesh. They should’ve gone to Malta.

Malta is quiet. Or parts of it are.

“Let’s come back tomorrow,” says Joe, putting his lips almost to the shell of Nicky’s ear to be heard over the hubbub.

“No.” The thought of ever returning to this seething anthill makes Nicky want to snarl and bite. What did they need that was worth this? He can’t remember.

Joe does. He’s got a list in his head. 

Nicky can’t decide if the bitterness churning in his chest is resentment or jealousy. He watches Joe even as he follows him. For a while they discreetly hook little fingers so as not to be unduly separated, lost to each other in the writhing mass of bodies and goods and commerce.

Joe is in his element, like a fish in water, slipping through the crowd, smiling, noticing, passing a joke or two with the sellers, shouting and pointing.

There are plenty of petulant children being led by their mothers in this place. Nicky counts himself among them.

Nicky hates Joe. No, Nicky loves Joe. Joe is his sun, his anchor, his everything, but in that moment, as Nicky stumbles through the crowd, he is consumed by ill will.

It is an ill will that seems to be making the market as hot as an inferno. It is an ill will that seems to be wrapping round Nicky’s lungs and constricting them.

Nicky loses touch with Joe. He loses sight of Joe. He loses…

“Nicky! Hey! I’ve got you! Hold on. Here we go.”

Nicky wakes up on a little sofa. The market is still swirling round, but the din has receded to the murmuration of so many birds.

Joe’s eyes are dark and concerned.

Nicky closes his eyes at the touch of the cool cloth to his brow. He tries to sit up and look around. Joe’s arm his at his back. “Easy, habibi.”

“What is this?” asks Nicky.

“It’s a kind of refuge.”

Nicky nods. “It’s a good idea. There should be more of these in a place like this.”

And that’s how they decide how to spend their months in Marrakesh (this time). They rent a space on the edge of the anthill. Between themselves they call it the Swooning Parlour, but it is officially called the Sore Feet Oasis. 


	8. St. Augustine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe goes from concerned to furious when he realizes Red Swimming Trunks is _urinating_ on his husband.
> 
> For 2020 DW Comfortween: Day 9: Tropical Paradise.

The beach is all but deserted.

Joe is too far away to yell and be heard, but he spots Nicky anyway as his beloved emerges from the waves. Nicky is easily recognizable in the bright green swimming trunks he purchased at the airport.

Joe is concerned. He can’t read Nicky’s face, but he knows by the way he stumbles, then collapses onto the sand that something is wrong.

Joe quickens his pace and considers yelling but doesn’t. He doesn’t wave, either. Nicky isn’t looking his way.

A figure in red swimming trunks emerges from the water, too, his arms extended toward Nicky in a gesture that might be offering assistance.

Nicky makes a dismissive wave. Not serious, whatever it is.

Joe is still concerned.

Joe goes from concerned to furious when he realizes Red Swimming Trunks is urinating on his husband.

Nicky launches into an animated discussion, meaning a lot of pre-Italian-unification hand gestures on Nicky’s part, and Red Swimming Trucks responds placatingly.

Joe races towards them, but by the time he reaches Nicky, Nicky is alone.

“What in the fuck was that?!”

Joe glowers at the driftwood walk that leads to the parking lot, prepared to hunt down Red Swimming Trunks and express his concern with his fists.

Nicky raises his hand, and Joe helps him to his feet.

“I got stung by a jellyfish,” says Nicky. “Apparently, that’s the local treatment.” He rolls his eyes. “What a good Samaritan.”

“We’ve known a lot of Samaritans. None of them did that! I’m going to wring his neck.”

“Let it go, Joe.”

“Let it go? He peed on you!”

Nicky has his hand over the lower half of his mouth. When he drops it, Joe can see that he’s laughing.

“He’s gone off to get his urine analyzed. He thinks it has miraculous healing powers!” Nicky looked down at his legs. “He said he’s never seen the welts disappear so fast.”

Joe laughs. A bit. “Still, Nicky,” he protests. “I want to kick his ass!”

“I know, I know. But don’t. It happened so fast. By the time, I realized what was happening, he’d drained the well, so to speak.”

Then a thought occurs to Joe. “Did you _like_ it?”

Nicky shoots him a wry look. “Nine hundred years! If I liked that, you’d know it by now!”

“People change. Tastes evolve. Sudden realizations.” Joe shrugs.

Nicky shakes his head and looks up and down the beach. “This is no road to Damascus, Joe.” Then he eyes Joe carefully. “You were gone longer than expected.”

Joe realizes that he’s completely forgotten the story he was so ready to tell Nicky.

“Yeah, you won’t believe it. An enormous alligator found its way into the hotel pool, and a drunk guest decided to punch it on the snout. I was helping. With the alligator and the idiot. The hotel manager said it happens a lot.”

Nicky shook his head ruefully. “Joe? Florida?”

“Yeah, it’s time to say good-bye. This place is crazy.” 


	9. Ulaanbaatar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico has a bad dream. Joe tells a lie. 
> 
> For DW Whumptober 2020 Day 11: Bad Dreams (comforting someone after a nightmare) and Whumptober Day 11: Psych 101 (Crying).

Yusuf’s deep sleep is violated by a terrible cry. The hand of the arm that is always slung across Nico’s body finds Nico’s hand, and when it finds that hand not clenched around the hilt of any kind of weapon, it sends a signal to Yusuf’s brain.

“Nico, Nico.”

Nico’s trembling grows to full-bodied spasms. He gasps for air, his chest heaving violently beneath Yusuf’s touch.

“Tell me,” urges Yusuf, bringing his hand up to brush the side of Nico’s face and brush hair damp with sweat, a very cold sweat. “Another bad dream?”

Nico sobs and twists in Yusuf’s arms. He nods and buries a very cold nose in the crook of Yusuf’s neck and sniffles, but Yusuf doesn’t mind. He is curling his arms round Nico and trying to bestow upon his beloved all the heat and comfort and protection his body can provide.

Nico is crying, and Yusuf is struggling against the impulse to push Nico to give words to his most recent disturbance. He holds Nico and waits, and, at last, his patience is rewarded.

“I was a ghost,” chokes Nico. “I could see you, but I couldn’t touch you. And you were suffering so, grieving the loss of me. You were tearing yourself and the world to pieces, and all I could do was watch and suffer doubly. I couldn’t reach you. I screamed and tried to move things and I tried to invade your sleep, but I failed. I couldn’t leave you. I had to keep vigil but to sit and watch you suffer and not be able to do anything was…”

“I’m here, Nico. I’m alive. So are you. We’re together, and if there’s anything good at all in this life, we will leave it together.”

Nico’s hands are around Yusuf’s neck, and he’s pulling his body as close to Yusuf’s as possible.

Yusuf makes soothing noises into Nico’s hair and pets him. “This is the eight bad dream in a fortnight, Nico.”

“Seventh.”

“You ignore the first one about the fire. I don’t.” Yusuf reaches out of their embrace to light a lantern. The yurt is suddenly filled with a soft glow. “I think it’s this place. The cold, Nico. We’ve been in cold places, but this is abominable.” 

Nico pulls back and looks at Yusuf. “What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? I’m worried sick about you.”

“You’ve been worried about me for weeks. This is different. Have you had a bad dream, too?”

“Yes” The lie is a small one. Yusuf hates the cold and the salty milk tea, suutei tsai, that everyone drinks. He hates that on every corner the eyes of Genghis Khan, the bastard, be they statue, sculpture, mural or plaque are upon him. Yusuf also knows that Nico is rarely motivated by his own well-being, but Yusuf is his top priority. 

“It’s my task to keep you warm. My nightmare is that I’m not enough, that I haven’t enough heat to spare to keep you warm. That you’ll be cold, my Nico, is my chief terror in this place. You’re slowly dying of cold, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Oh, Yusuf.”

Yusuf knows by the way Nico says his name that he’s won. He feels a pang of guilt, but just one. It’s cold.

“I know the protection of the monastery is important to you,” he offers to assuage his own conscience.

“No, we must leave. We must leave this place. I can’t bear for you to suffer, tesoro. In the morning, we pack and go. South. Someplace warm.” 


	10. Rio de Janeiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Nicky at Carnaval. Joe confesses his lie. 
> 
> Continuation of the previous chapter.
> 
> For DW 2020 Whumptober Day 13: Achilles Heel (helping someone with a twisted ankle or other leg/foot injury) and Whumptober 2020 Day 12: I Think I've Broken Something (Broken Trust.)

“It will heal quick enough,” chides Nicky. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Maybe I want to,” counters Joe who is removing Nicky’s sandal and gently rubbing his bare foot. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before injury struck. We’ve been dancing for days.”

“It’s Carnaval, Joe! All the world is dancing!” Nicky extends the blue-green feather that he found on the ground, no doubt fallen or torn from one of the myriad costumes on display these days, to tickle the front V of Joe’s shirt. “I just happened to be so light on my feet as to forget where the pavement was.”

“I like dancing with you,” says Joe. “I like watching you dance.”

This is a different Joe, a beardless Joe with close-cropped hair. He grins and tenderly rotates Nicky’s ankle. The swelling is diminishing, and the mottled color is fading. “When you’re ready, let’s go to the beach.”

Nicky nods. He’s in low-hanging jeans and a kind of mesh sleeveless vest, a thin gold chain on his chest and a thin gold earring in one ear. His bare arms are smeared with glitter and makeup and damp witJoe’s in jeans and a very open short-sleeve shirt of a faded green-and-yellow plaid and a battered fedora hat sitting at a rakish angle.

“I have a confession, habibi,” says Joe as they wind their way through the revelers. “I lied to you.”

“Oh,” says Nicky, catching Joe’s eyes and raising an eyebrow. “About what you want to do to me later?” he teases.

“Never about that, hayati That’s as good as a blood oath the way you look tonight.”

“This morning,” corrects Nicky, eyeing the lightening sky.

Joe says no more until they reach the beach. The sun is just rising as they purchase two chilled green coconuts from a machete-wielding vendor. The coconuts are scalped, and wide straws stuck into the bare head.

Nicky sips and sighs. “That’s better. Now, confess all to Father Nicolò, my lamb.”

“I lied to you in Ulaanbaatar.”

Nicky frowns, then laughs. “That is a very, very long time ago, my love. And almost half a world away.”

“A lie is a lie. I broke your trust.”

“Word, deed, or omission?”

“I never had a bad dream. I just hated that place and wanted to leave and thought you would agree to leave more readily if I exaggerated my suffering. Your nightmares were terrible, and I was very worried about you, but I knew you wouldn’t abandon your commitment to the monastery without more substantial a reason, something that had to do with me. I manipulated you, and I’m sorry.”

Nicky strikes a contemplative pose, which is partially belied by the coconut with the straw, then declares abruptly and matter-of-factyly,

“I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been carrying this on your conscience all this time?”

“On and off, yes.”

“Oh, Joe.” Nicky leans to the side to press his lips to Joe’s temple. “But why confess now?” he asks as he pulls back. “You could’ve carried your secret to your grave, however far away that is.”

“You look like an angel dancing.”

“Falling angel,” amends Nicky.

“Falling angel,” agrees Joe. “And, well, this place is so warm. I can hardly imagine how cold I was then, but I was cold enough to lie to you and play upon your love for me. That bothers me. We’re so happy here. I don’t want to carry the burden anymore. Not here.”

“I like it here, too. Dance with me, Joe.”

They set their coconuts aside and stand and fold into each other’s arms. In this country of music, there is a song playing somewhere even at the early hour. Nicky forgets his sandals and dances on the sand, and soon his bare feet are atop Joe’s shoes, and their bodies are pressed together, swaying more than dancing.

Nicky yawns and nuzzles the side of Joe’s neck. “Would you mind escorting your angel home?”

“Of course not.” Joe finds Nicky’s discarded sandals and plops them down in front of Nicky’s feet. Then he slips his arm around Nicky’s waist. Nicky leans into him.

“And Joe?”

“Hmm?”

“Watch my step?”

“Always, ya qamar.”


	11. Vancouver.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe has food poisoning and hallucinates. 
> 
> For DW 2020 Comfortween: Day 30: Candy overload (Comforting someone through some sort of stomach upset or abdominal pain) and Whumptober 2020: Day 16: A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day: Hallucinations.

Joe is walking across a bridge. He holds the handrails, but he still moves slowly, step by step. The bridge is in the treetops, suspended high over a river. The water rages down in the gorge. Joe doesn’t look down, but he doesn’t let go of the handrails, either.

The bridge begins to bounce and sway as Joe advances. His grip tightens, and he slows his already slow progress. Then he hears the wind singing through the treetops and stops altogether. Joe listens. The wind is singing a little song he remembers from long ago about a cat who was a clever thief and stole a piece of poisoned fish and died.

The bridge is swaying in time with the melody, and the wind is mellowing and softening into a voice, a voice Joe knows.

“Nicky?”

“I’m here, love. You’re not alone.”

“Are you on the bridge?”

Joe looks in front of him and behind him.

No Nicky.

The bridge sways. The wind sings the song about the cat.

“Am I the cat?” asks Joe when he reaches the middle of the bridge.

“You didn’t steal the poisoned fish,” says Nicky. “We bought it. Sushi. Bad sushi followed by the worst gelato every imagined. I don’t like to use the word ‘abomination’ on principle, but I’m sorely tempted in the case of that damn gelato. I think you’ve got it all out of your system. Now it’s just repairing the trauma. You’re not going to die, love. Not today anyway.”

The wind is caressing Joe’s hair with the strong touch of a hand. It caresses the side of Joe’s face and kisses the top of his head. It sort of holds him, cradles him, like loving arms.

“Rest, Joe.”

“But how can I rest on this bridge?”

“Keep going, then. When you reach the other side, I’ll be there.”

Joe keeps going. It takes him what seems like a very long time, and he fairly certain he takes a nap once or twice, but when he reaches the other side, the breeze smells of mint tea.

He opens his eyes.

“Welcome back, love.”

Joe smiles. “I feel as weak as a kitten that stole a poisoned fish.”

“Thankfully, you’re the kind of feline who has more than nine lives.”

“When I get better, can we go to the bridge?”

“Of course, but we’re eating the same thing from now on.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is an Algerian song for children called [Hikaya Sisan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVQUW-TNePU) found in _Songs in the Shade of the Olive Tree: Lullabies and Nursery Rhymes from the Maghreb_ by Hafida Favret and Magdelaine Lerasle.


	12. San Francisco.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky is pulled from a coffin on a boat bound for Honolulu. 
> 
> For Whumptober 2020: Day 17: I Did Not See That Coming (Wrongfully Accused) and Comfortween 2020: Day 14: Like a Momma Bird (Helping someone with everyday tasks tat they're unable to do because of illness/injury).

He doesn’t hear the splintering of wood or the lid of the coffin creaking. He doesn’t feel strong arms lifting him. He doesn’t even hear the voice the first time it speaks, but there’s too much urgency in the tone when he does hear it for it to be a first utterance.

“Nicky, oh, there we go, I’ve got you. It’s over. The whole nightmare’s over, and we’re getting out of here. It’s Joe.”

Joe.

“You’re safe. We’re safe. And free. We’ll be in Honolulu soon and then when you’re ready, we’ll go west, as far as you want, as fast as we can.”

The body, the chest, against which he is slumped is solid and alive. There’s a thumping heart and warm blood.

“Do you think you can drink some water?”

No.

“Nicky? Stay with me. Why don’t you drink some water?”

No.

“For me? For Joe?”

Oh, well, okay. For Joe.

Lips are pried apart. A few wet drops pass them. The tongue doesn’t know exactly what to do yet, but the throat swallows instinctively and painfully.

“Good. Nicky, it’s over, but, really, of all the crazy schemes, getting yourself put away in a prison on an island for a crime you didn’t commit is really up there.”

Vocal cords vibrate in protest.

“I know. Simmons didn’t do it, either and you couldn't let him take the fall for something he didn’t do. More water?”

It doesn’t seem like such a bad idea this time. Lips separate without so much effort, and the tongue is remembering its part.

“I figured it out, by the way, who killed the Randolphs.” The mouth twitches at the pride in the voice. “When we get to Honolulu, I’ll tell you how I did it. Maybe I should be a detective. Murphy and his bunch of swine will get the credit, but I don’t care. I didn’t want to see Simmons go to prison, either, but I had a different way of dealing with it. Not _taking the blame_ ,” there’s poorly interred reproach there, “but finding the real culprit. We’ve got to communicate a bit better, love. Or I’ve got to think ahead and tie you to the bed when a foolish notion starts to take root in that gorgeous skull of yours. Really, what were you thinking?”

The word ‘help’ bubbles up, but it doesn’t come out right.

“I don’t suppose the history books are going to count you as one of the ones who escaped Alcatraz, seeing as how you escaped it in a pine box. Your body, by the way, is headed to your next of kin. We’ll get you buried in Honolulu. More water.”

It isn’t a question anymore. He drinks.

“You need to shave your beard. I need to grow mine back. And I’m sorry, but we can’t return to America, especially California, for a long, long time.”

He takes a deep breath, pushes the air out of his lungs and croaks,

“Why are you sorry? I’m not.”


	13. Manaus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky and Joe are lost on a leaky raft on the Amazon River. Crack. Triple drabble.
> 
> For the Whumptober Day 20: Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore (Lost) and Comfortween Day 19: General Hospital (field medicine).

“I think we’re lost,” says Nicky.

“I’m sure we’re lost,” says Joe. “We’re lost on the Amazon River in a leaky raft.”

“Not so leaky,” says Nicky, who is in charge of filling the gaps in the planks.

“A bit leaky,” snaps Joe. “We’re lost because _someone_ thinks that he can communicate with every scarlet macaw and red howler monkey and alligator we come across! You only get one superpower, hayati, and yours is immortality. You are not, in fact, a parseltongue.”

“I might be.”

“No, you’re not.”

“The pink dolphins, Joe.”

“The pink dolphins are beautiful and wonderful and amazing.”

“And we understand each other.”

Joe made a noise of frustration. “When we get to Manaus…”

“I want to get some nice clothes and go to opera.”

“I want to stay at that hotel in the trees.”

“We can do both.”

“If we ever get there.”

Nicky turns around and lets his eyes wander over a shirtless Joe. He reaches back to touch Joe’s chest.

“Hey!” shouts Joe. “Is that the hand you let the piranhas eat?”

“It grew back!” Nicky turns his back to Joe and cross his arms and tries not to pout.

“I’m sorry,” says Joe to Nicky’s back. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t like being lost. I appreciate the, uh, field medicine you applied to my spider bite.”

“It would’ve healed anyway, eventually,” grumbles Nicky.

“Still. It was thoughtful. And kind. Like you.”

Nicky looks over his shoulder and sees Joe’s smile and melts. Then he turns back and says excitedly. “I think we’ll be in Manaus soon, Joe. Up there.” He points. “I think we should take a left.”

“Why?”

Nicky shoots Joe a knowing look over his shoulder and points down to the water.

“Oh,” says Joe. “The pink dolphins told you?”

“Yes.”


	14. Buenos Aires.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky is grieving after he reads a newspaper. Triple drabble.
> 
> For the Whumptober Day 19: Broken Hearts (Grief)
> 
> You can't tell me that Nicky and Joe aren't capable of something like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-irzqZ5DiPQ).

“I know you’re grieving, love,” says Joe.

Nicky harrumphs and folds the newspaper in half and drops it on the table between them. “Son zeneize, rîzo ræo, strénzo i dénti e parlo ciæo.”

“I know you are Genovese,” says Joe. “You seldom laugh, true, but when you do it’s like the moon weeping stars on the twilight. You do grind your teeth, and once in a blue moon, you snore in an adorable manner, like a puppy with a cold. And when you do speak, which is not as often as some people,” Joe coughs, “you always say what you mean. You especially say what you mean when you say things like ‘Joe, you’re the most handsome man in Buenos Aires. Joe, you’re an exquisite lover. Joe, your artistry is beyond compare.’”

Nicky harrumphs again and sips his coffee. He pushes the pastry on the plate towards Joe. “There isn’t enough dulce de leche in this city to sweeten me at the moment, love.”

“I suppose it’ll just take time to work through the grief,” says Joe, scarfing down the pastry.

“A rather silly thing to grieve.” Nicky plucks at the newspaper. “I am not even there. I haven’t been there in a very long time.”

“There are no silly griefs, habibi, but why don’t we go dancing tonight? At that place down by the docks?”

Nicky looks up from the newspaper, and there is a certain light in his eyes that reassures Joe that his lover is not beyond the call and recall of distraction.

“I would like that,” says Nicky.

“The unification of Italy, pah!” says Joe with a dismissive gesture, “but the unification of Joe and Nicky is something worth celebrating.”

A tiny smile on Nicky’s lips is as sweet as the last crumbs Joe licks from his lips. 


	15. Goma.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky and Joe discuss burnout in Goma.
> 
> For DW Comfortween Day 20: Maybe don't give 110% (Exhaustion) and Whumptober 23. What's a Whumpee gotta do to get some sleep around here? (Exhaustion).

“Nicky, wake up, we’ve got to move again.”

“Oh, fuck,” groans Nicky, holding his head with one arm as he pushes himself up from the cot. “They won’t stop ‘til we’re at the top of the volcano, will they?” he mumbles under his breath, but he is already on his feet and, with practiced ease, packing up the supplies, the medical supplies first, and then his own meagre belongings. “How many did they get this time?” he asks.

“Too many. But the camps aren’t safer than the city. They’re dying there, too.”

“Fuck. This one matters, this one matters,” Nicky mutters. “That’s why I became a doctor because this one matters.”

“We won’t be here forever,” says Joe. “Next place isn’t going to be hot. It’ll be cold.”

“Not Mongolia,” said Nicky, frowning as he folds up the cot.

“Not Mongolia, but not built on grey volcanic rock. With no water. And we won’t have to sleep in separate cots.” Joe is removing a peg from the tent.

Nicky pauses and catches Joe’s eye. “It doesn’t really matter here, does it? We haven’t slept at the same time in ages.” He remembers his little finger latched in Joe’s the first night, but it can’t remember it since. They work, and they keep vigil. They keep vigil, and they work.

“We’re going to need to rest sometime, hayati.”

There are heavy bags under Joe’s eyes and his clothes hang on him in a way that Nicky choses not to dwell on for too long. Joe keeps his beard and hair clipped because it gives him a reason to put a few coins in some pockets of people who need them even more than the rest.

He looks as tired as Nicky feels.

But not when he’s playing soccer with the children or telling them stories in French with puppets that he made out of banana leaves and Coca-Cola bottles. Then he smiles and laughs and jokes and teases.

“Jerusalem,” says Nicky, out of the blue as he helps Joe with the tent. “This is not our first genocide. It won’t be our last, either. So much misery, Joe. Why is there so much misery?”

“We do good when and where we can, Nicky, and for this one, it matters,” says Joe. “That’s why we’re here. We’ll know when it’s time to go. Ready? There’s Michael with the truck.” 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”


	16. Ushuaia.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe rescues Nicky from a dip in icy water.
> 
> The south pole corollary to the Amazonian pink dolphins. 
> 
> DW 2020 Comfortween Day 22: Winter Wonderland (hypothermia).

“Come on, my little pistachio gelato, let’s get you melted.” Joe lumbers into the lodge, stomps his boots, and bends, allowing Nicky to roll as gently as he can onto the rug.

Joe stokes the dying fire to a roar, then turns quickly back to Nicky, who lies immobile and congealed where he fell.

“My moon-flavoured popsicle. My sea-eyed ice lolly,” cooes Joe as he strips Nicky of his wet clothes.

“Lots of blankets. Hot water bottle. Hot toddy with a little dash of immortality. Some top-shelf body heat, if I do say so myself,” Joe chuckles, “And you should be back to normal in no time, habibi. But that frostbite when it thaws is, I must say, going to sting like a motherfucker.”

When Nicky’s naked, Joe wraps him in a heavy blanket. He proceeds to rub Nicky’s feet and hands.

“Brrr! You are cold! Let’s think warm thoughts, too, while we’re at it. Remember Goma? Remember how hot we were? Remember how tired, working on the side of a volcano? We traded ash for ice at the end of the world. It’s nice here. Nothing like Mongolian cold, yeah? Nothing like Ulaanbaatar. No Genghis Khan staring at you from every corner, for starters.”

“The fires are nice and toasty here. I like the people, too. Interesting mix. Fishermen, tourists, scientists, even the navy boys. Everybody’s on an expedition, or a walkabout, and this is the jumping off point. End of the world! I like that little lighthouse we keep. It’s peaceful and quiet, and you’re looking so much better these days. Much better than Goma. You didn’t look so good by the end. I know you need silence and solitude the way I need a good karaoke night and a pretty view to sketch. And someone to sleep between me and door. The night’s sky here? Amazing! Makes you want to pray, doesn’t it?”

Joe drags Nicky closer to the fire. Then he presses his lips to Nicky’s face, his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw, his ears.

“But what happened, hayati? I was just having a nice chat with the guys from the ice-breaker, and whoop! You were gone! I went out of my mind! I can’t figure it out. You must’ve just lost your footing and slipped into the water, but whatever made you bend over that far?”

“P-p-penguins,” chatters Nicky. “Wanted to p-p-pet one.”

“Oh, love.”


	17. Zanzibar Town.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico carries Yusuf to bed after a day at the bathhouse. 
> 
> Inspired by the Hamamni Persian Baths.
> 
> For the Comfortween Day 23: Enter Sandman (carrying to bed).

The weight of Yusuf’s body in Nico’s arms is heavy and perfect. Nico walks slowly, not because he is overly burdened, but because he is savouring the feel of his beloved, Yusuf’s back against his upper arm, Yusuf’s knees curled around his forearm, Yusuf’s hands clasped round his neck, putting pressure, lovely, trusting, hanging, intimate pressure on his nape.

“I like carrying you very much,” whispers Nico. Then he amends his statement. “When you’re not dead or dying, that is. Then I’m a bit too distracted to appreciate it.”

Yusuf’s reply is to sniff and tighten his grip.

Nico reaches their sleeping palette and bends to place Yusuf upon it.

Yusuf rolls, and Nico draws back the bedding and slips between the covers beside Yusuf.

“These sheets are very fine. It feels like sleeping between two clouds. What have we done to merit this, my love?”

Yusuf grunts.

“Ah, yes, well, I suppose saving the sultan’s life does warrant a reward.”

Nico sighs and runs a hand along Yusuf’s upper arm.

“Your skin is so soft. I don’t think it’s ever felt so soft. I know the attendants at the bath would cut off their own hands before revealing the recipe of those preparations: the scrubbing salt, the lotion, the salves, but I am curious.”

“The fat of infidels,” mutters Yusuf sleepily.

Nico laughs. He is on his back with his arms bent at his elbow and his hand beneath his head, staring up at the tiled ceiling of their quarters.

Yusuf is on his side, facing Nico, his eyes closed, the rise and fall of his chest like munificent waves bringing a ship into port.

“And your hair, Yusuf.” Nico gives his lover’s head a tender caress. “So soft. You got a trim, too. You look so handsome.” He curls toward Yusuf. “And you smell so good.” He puts his nose to Yusuf’s neck and nuzzles him once. Then he kisses the tip of Yusuf’s nose. “I love the way this island smells. Vanilla. Pepper. Cinnamon. Cloves. It’s like everyone from everywhere is meeting here. Rogues and saints. Prophets and bastards.”

Yusuf’s hum is a noncommittal rumble. Nico continues.

“I looked at every single man at the bath today, patrons and attendants. Not one of them so much as caused me to raise my eyebrow. And then I looked at you, and I could barely breathe. And then you turned towards me and opened your mouth and it was as if, for a moment, I’d forgotten who we were, and I thought to myself ‘Who is this prince talking to me?’ And I felt giddy and shy, like a young girl. And then you told me a story with a joke, and you said my name, fondly, richly, your voice as rich as the perfumed oils they slathered on your skin. You spoke to me, and I fell madly in love with you all over again. Your flush skin, your damp skin, damp with vapor and sweat, your sweet-smelling hair, the musky fragrance of your…”

“Nico!”

A rough hand is pulling Nico and pushing him and pulling him, arranging him, turning him on his side. A knee thrusts between Nico’s legs. Teeth pinch at Nico’s neck as Yusuf’s body warms him.

“Yusuf, you smell lovely and feel lovely and I know if I tasted you…”

“Hush, Nico, I want to sleep!”

Then Nico is rolled under Yusuf, and Yusuf rolls atop Nico, apparently, trying to press Nico into silence with the full weight of his body.

“But part of you, at least, is awake, Yusuf,” points out Nico, helpfully.


	18. Reykjavik.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky and Joe at thermal baths at Christmastime.
> 
> For the DW Comfortween Day 25: A long soak (visiting a hot springs).

It’s about five seconds, no more. That’s how long it takes for Joe to slide into the thermal springs. Those five second pass in slow motion, and Nicky has each frame carved in his mind. Joe slipping, slipping, slipping down into the water, easing himself down, carefully, decidedly.

Joe is wearing sunglasses and dark blue swimming trunks with a ridiculous pattern of drunk piranhas on them and his baseball cap on backwards. He’s grinning as he grips the side of the pool and lowers his body into the water.

“Ooof!” he says and adds a long wolf whistle for good measure. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

Nicky nods.

Sulfurous steam is rising all around them. There is snow and ice both near and far. Bright lights turn eternal night into day.

About the pools, there are benches and chairs and outdoor showers and hooks and bags and towels and many, many people milling about. They are getting out of the water. Or getting in the water like Joe. They are chatting. Kids are playing. Old people are relaxing. Young people are flirting.

Joe dips a hand down and splashes his shoulders and chest with water as he advances, step by step, towards Nicky.

Nicky watches the rivulets that form on Joe’s torso and the drops that cascade and fall back into the pool.

“I see you looking, hayati,” teases Joe, and Nicky blushes and looks away.

But not for long.

He looks back. He can’t help it. He can almost feel Joe’s nipple in his mouth.

Joe sidles next to him and props his elbows on the side of the pool in imitation of Nicky’s pose.

“You look comfortable here,” observes Nicky when the lust fog lifts enough for conversation. It’s their first time in Iceland, and the trip is one of their most spontaneous decisions of recent memory. They had been waiting in an airport, and Joe had been reading an article in a silly magazine about eating chocolate and reading books on Christmas Eve. Nicky couldn’t even say why the notion made him laugh and smile and whisper wicked things about licking chocolate off Joe’s skin while he read poetry beneath twinkling fairy lights.

And before Nicky knew what was happening, they were not going to wherever they’d planned to go, but here. Reykjavik.

“I like it here, but I’m no elf, habibi albi. Not a puffin, either.”

Nicky giggles.

“But I have a theory,” continues Joe.

“What’s that?”

“Islands. You and I like islands. Islands suit us.”

“Malta.”

“Zanzibar.”

“Maybe. Not Alcatraz, though!”

Joe laughs. “Just a theory.”

Nicky nods and files the thought away for later consideration. Later, when Joe is wearing a shirt, and they are wandering through art galleries and buying books to read on Christmas Eve and arguing about whether they should try a puffin burger.

“You look edible, Joe, and I love you so much. I don’t even know why we’re here, but I’m very happy.”

“That’s precisely why we’re here, love.”


	19. Glasgow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe misses the boat. 
> 
> As a soccer mom, the whole tumblr discussion of Nicky having granola bars and Capri-suns in his backpack and pockets when they go to rescue the girls in the Sudan (because the outside of him is laden with seven centuries of weaponry) is hilarious and worth commemorating. 
> 
> For Comfortween Day 27: Long Distance Comfort (being there for someone when you can't be with them).

Joe can hardly believe it. This is the silliest thing he’s done of late.

He’s literally missed the boat, the boat that Nicky is on!

And now dark clouds are threatening to lash the world, and there are no more ferries tonight. No way for Joe to catch up with Nicky and the boat. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope for clearer skies and another boat tomorrow.

Joe and Nicky exchange texts as Joe crawls back to the hotel in shame. Nicky is Nicky, understanding, the opposite of reproachful, patient. 

Joe is lucky. He gets a single room at the hotel. He doesn’t want a double. He doesn’t want a reminder of Nicky’s absence.

By the time Joe plops down on the side of the narrow bed, the storm is in full swing. A howling wind is rattling the glass pane, and the staccato patter of rain on the window only makes Joe feel worse.

Nicky loves storms!

Joe could have his arms round Nicky right then, feeling his vicarious excitement like an electric current.

Fuck!

Joe sighs. What is Nicky doing right then, beside listening to the storm? Reading, probably.

Joe opens his pack and digs.

Before he reaches his book, Joe’s fingers brush something else. He pulls it out.

Nicky’s green hoodie!

**I have your hoodie! J**

**Good. I’ve been worried about you. Now I’m not. N**

Joe smiles. He gets ready for bed. Then he dresses a pillow in Nicky’s hoodie. He lies down on his side and pulls the Nicky pillow to his chest, looking over the Nicky pillow’s shoulder to read. He hears a sloshing.

“What?”

Joe reaches into the pocket of the hoodie and pulls out two granola bars and two juices pouches.

“Snacks! I love you, Nicky.”


	20. Hong Kong/Macau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe gets squished in Hong Kong but cleans up nicely in Macau. 
> 
> I love that scene of [James Bond approaching the casino in Macau](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcA9_bPfFuU) in _Skyfall_ , so why not put handsome Joe in his place? But first a squishing because the prompt is 'reluctant bedrest' and falling from a funicular will do it.
> 
> For Whumptober Day 29: I think I need a doctor (Reluctant Bedrest). 
> 
> The plan is for one more by the end of the week and then close this collection out. A spooky one for Halloween.

“No, Joe, stop! Where are you going? You need to stay in bed!”

“I don’t want to stay in bed!”

“Joe, please.”

“Nicky, I don’t need to stay in bed.”

“You do. It was a bad death, Joe. Really bad.”

“Not that bad.”

“You fell from a funicular. I had to collect your broken bits in a wheelbarrow.”

“I’m healing. We heal. That’s what we do.”

“A lot of people saw you die, Joe, a lot of people with cellphones and social media accounts. We have to keep a very low profile. We’re hiding out in a red-sailed junk boat in the harbor, by the way.”

Joe frowns. “I was wondering about the view.”

“And you’re point on the next job. Andy needs you to be in top form by tomorrow evening. We’re going to Macau.” 

Joe sighs.

“You’re still weak, Joe.”

“I’m not that weak.”

“Please.”

“Oh, well. If you insist. Why don’t you join me here?” Joe raises his eyebrows suggestively and throws back one corner of the covers.

“It’s a tiny bed.”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

Nicky smiles. “You’re suppose to be resting.”

“I can rest on you. Or, you know, if you’re feeling munificent, I can just lie here and let you do all the work.”

Nicky chuckles. “How about some soup?”

“That’s a poor substitute.”

* * *

Nicky watches him through the scope of the rifle and wishes he had a camera with an equally powerful lens. Even if he had a camera, though, Nicky wouldn’t take a photograph of Joe. It was a job, not a holiday. And even if it were a holiday, Nicky and Joe don’t really have the kind of life—the kind of lives—where they keep photographs of each other. 

But Santo Madre di Dio Joe looks good enough to eat.

He’s standing in full, bespoke evening dress, on the bow of a flat boat approaching the casino. There are fireworks going off in the distance and lantern buoys bobbing in the water. What is not in darkness is glowing with a soft warm light.

Nicky would swoon if he didn’t have a job to do, which is watch Joe’s six and not his ass. 

Joe’s expression is impassive, almost stony. He looks nothing like the bag of broken bones Nicky wheeled away in a barrow like a storybook witch and patched together three days ago on a junk boat in Hong Kong. He’s gotten a top-shelf shave, if Nicky does say so himself, and a close shearing of his curls. His posture is that of an athlete at rest, strong but still, one hand in his pocket, on hand by his side. It is as if every day he floats into a harbor, under a bridge, and directly into the mouth of a massive glowing dragon.

The entrance to the casino is nothing short of jaw-dropping.

Joe steps off the boat and onto the platform with a grace that makes Nicky want to pray, so he does.

For both of them. 


	21. Valletta. (Warning for dark themes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky follows a cat and becomes accessory to a gruesome murder. **Warning for dark themes: murder, animal murder, left for dead, and Iron Maiden-type device.**
> 
> For Halloween, I am ending on a dark note. For anyone reading my Kinktober collection, Malteasers, this is a continuation of the chapter called [Green Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819617/chapters/66366254) where the cat is following them around Valletta while they have sex. 
> 
> **Thank you to all my gentle readers for taking this journey around the world with Joe and Nicky (and me)!**
> 
> For Comfortween Day 31: Too Spooky (Calming someone down after a fright) and Whumptober No. 31 Today's Special Torture (Left for Dead).
> 
> This is based on Bram Stoker's short story "The Squaw," which I don't recommend because it has a lot of racist and colonial ideas and language about Native Americans as well as animal death.

Joe’s back is to Nicky when Nicky returns to the cottage.

“Joe.”

“Hey, I was just going to look for you—what’s wrong? What happened? Oh, no, no…”

Nicky looks at the blood on the front of his clothes. Then he looks at and opens his mouth, but no sound escapes. He shoots Joe a look that is more frustration than angst.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” says Joe, and that alone makes Nicky relax and feel more grounded to the world around him. “But are you okay?” asks Joe, slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact with Nicky.

Nicky nods. 

“Your blood?” asks Joe.

Nicky nods again.

Joe touches the tear in the shirt, Joe’s shirt on Nicky’s body, tight across the shoulders, loose across the waist. “Did you wake up alone?”

Nicky manages three words. “Not now, please.”

Joe nods and rubs the back of his head and sniffs. “Andy called a few minutes after you went out the window after that cat. That’s why I didn’t go after you. Shit! I should have! I knew I should have. It’s always been you and the bloody animals. The crocodile and the pink dolphins and the penguins. It was that damn cat!”

The damn cat in question has green eyes, gray fur, and a kink in its tail. It followed Nicky and Joe through Valleta on a debauched night of clubbing, spying on them as they had sex in dark corners. It had also shown up at the cottage an hour or so earlier while Nicky and Joe were just about to enjoy a bit of morning wake-up sex. Nicky had thought the cat was communicating with him and had followed it out the bedroom window, leaving Joe, their bed, and the cottage behind without so much as a word.

Nicky exhales and finds his voice. “Yeah? Andy called. So what’s up?” Nicky tries to make himself sound as normal as possible even as he feels Joe’s eyes wandering over him, collecting data and making deductions about what might have happened to him.

Nicky loves Joe, and normally he’d oblige him and spill everything, but Nicky isn’t ready to talk it about it. Yet.

“New job. Bamako. Our flight leaves in,” Joe glances at his phone, “three hours.”

Nicky nods. “Time to pack. Board everything up.”

“Yeah. I’ve started on things. Nicky?”

“I’m okay, really, but Joe?”

“Yeah?”

Nicky presses his lips together, then says,

“We can’t come back here for a while. And we need to wipe everything down.”

“All right. May I ask why?”

“Because I’m an accessory to a murder.”

* * *

Sometimes love is a warm hug. Sometimes it is a cold compress.

And sometimes it’s a passport and identity cards and visa in an entirely new name handed over without a word.

Joe and Nicky are at the airport, drinking coffee and tea, respectively, when Nicky finally leans in and says,

“I followed the cat a long way. It would stop and make certain I was behind it. I know you think I’m crazy when I talk to animals, but this one, Joe, this was talking to me, I swear it. Not talking but, you know, communicating.”

“All right, all right,” says Joe lifting both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Joe’s leg is touching Nicky’s beneath the little table. Joe’s hand is holding Nicky’s atop the little table. When they are in the plane, they can curl up together and whisper sweet nothings in languages no else speaks, but for now, this will have to do.

“The cat led me to this place, far away from other houses. I’ve never seen it before. Maybe we should get some maps and try to figure it out. There was nothing, nothing, nothing. Then suddenly there was a kind of junkyard. Lots of rusted tools, gates, fences, cages, that sort of thing. The only new things were the coffins. All sizes. There were signs of grave-digging and filling. There were bones of animals, too. Some carcasses in various stages of decomposition. I think, well, I think some of them were young cats.”

Nicky can’t bring himself to say the word ‘kittens’ aloud. He feels the squeeze of Joe’s fingers.

“There was a workshop, too. I heard someone in the workshop. He had a human corpse with him, Joe, a human corpse. There were tools of all kinds, blades, saws, crude things and thin ones. He even had some antiques,” Nicky’s lip curls in a snarl, “you know, cruel beauties from the good old days.”

“Nicky, you should’ve left.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t leave, did you?”

“Of course not. I thought I’d surprise him.”

“With no weapon. Great. And?”

Nicky looks sheepish. “And he surprised me. And the next thing I knew I was waking up in a coffin.”

“Bastard!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Joe, for either of us.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it—for either of us! I should’ve followed you. How was I to know you’d end up in some shop of horrors? Let’s skip to the end, hayati. Is the bastard dead?”

Nicky nods.

“Good. Did you kill him?”

Nicky shakes his head. “In one corner, there was a, well, it was a big coffin, fitted with spikes. It was open and labelled ‘Iron Virgin.’”

Their eyes meet, and Nicky knows there’s only one thought shared between them.

Quynh.

Nicky presses on. He wants to finish this before they have to board the plane. “He hadn’t nailed the coffin shut yet. The lid was just resting on the top. I lifted it a little. I saw him. His back was to me. There was a sawhorse between him and me. The cat leapt onto the sawhorse, and believe me or believe me not, Joe, it looked straight at me with those green eyes. It looked at me like it was giving me orders. Like Andy or something. Like it was part of the crew on a job. I knew what it wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“On ‘three’ I popped out of the coffin, which was on a bier, and the man turned round, and the cat sprang on his face, hissing and sputtering. And between the fright of me coming back to life and the cat attached to his face, he stumbled and fell directly into the Iron Virgin. Before I had even gotten to my feet, the cat had thrown itself off the man’s face, bounced off the sawhorse, and launched itself back on the spring on this side of the Iron Virgin, and the door swung closed and latched.”

“You’re saying the cat killed him?”

Nicky nods. “And I left him to die.”

Joe blinks slowly and finished his coffee and Nicky’s tea before he speaks. “Did you cover your tracks?”

Nicky nods.

“Did anyone see you?”

Nicky shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He pauses then asks the most important question. “Do you believe me, Joe?”

“Ya amar, of course, I believe you.”

Nicky relaxes. It is better, he thinks, than any warm hug or any cold compress, to tell a horrible story and be believed.

“I love you, Joe.”

“I love you, too.” Joe takes the scarf from around his own neck and wraps it around Nicky’s. “But I hate the thought of you confronting this monster by yourself. Or you being the telepathic tool of some revenge-seeking feline. I hate the idea of you waking up alone. Even if you heal, I hate the idea of you being wounded.”

“But the wound, Joe…”

“I know. ‘The wound is where the light enters us.’” Joe kisses Nicky’s fingers. “We’ll come back when it’s nothing more than a dusty memory and an unsolved mystery. But no more following cats by yourself!”

Nicky smiles. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
